Fortuna
by d17jasonvoorhees123
Summary: For all his life, Hans highest ambition has been to wear a crown. He never expected one to simply fall into his lap.


**After Hans' humiliation in _F_****_rozen Fever_, I thought he deserved a break.**

* * *

"We could establish a Republic. In name only, of course."

General Iversen cracks a cynical smile.

Colonel Mortensen grimaces, and shakes his head.

"Won't do. Some sort of legitimacy will be needed. Unless you fancy being overrun by the British, Prussians, and Swedish all at once, a republic is out of the question."

"Then" interjects Møller. "What we need is a puppet."

The room is dimly lit, three oil lamps hanging from ancient rafters casting a dull glow over the faces of the three men. Outside, a vicious winter wind screams and beats against the windowpanes, as if nature itself protests what they have done and plan to do.

"And who might that be? Do you think we can trust any of Gustav's scoundrels on the throne? Hardly" Iversen spits. "Were it all up to me, I wouldn't even keep them alive."

"And we won't. Well, not all of them. I think if we kill the oldest five or so, the rest will readily fall into line. But I agree, even then I wouldn't trust a single one of them on the throne."

Møller looks out from the highest window of the old palace, upon the waves that build up, glistening in the moonlight, before dashing themselves on the Southern Isles' sandy shores. It is a regular, predictable rhythm.

Safe.

Stable.

The nation's capital itself sleeps still. As far as the good people of the Southern Isles are concerned, all is as it should be. Tomorrow, the baker will be in his shop, the sailor at the docks, and the good King Gustav on his throne. Ordinary folk have little stomach for upheaval.

At the moment, Gustav is in his bed, and with the dagger lodged deep in his miserable throat, it is unlikely he'll arise with the sun. Perhaps it would have been better to leave the king alive, some would say, lock him up, or allow him an honorable exile. But no, Gustav was a stubborn, devious old bastard, and if he were allowed to keep breathing, he would sooner rather than later attempt to scheme his way back onto the throne. So his lot was death. Fine, that was easy enough, but what of his sons? Twelve of them, to be exact. Each just as miserable as their late father. Killing the king was one thing, exterminating an entire royal house quite another. That would earn these three plotters the ire of not only native royalists, but also foreign kings and queens, anxious to prevent any regicidal whisperings from spreading to their own lands.

For the moment, General Iversen, along with Colonels Møller and Mortensen, is the de facto ruler of the Southern Isles, though few know it yet. Coups are risky business, and this affair could have-and might still-end with their dangling from trees.

"Whatever we do" says Mortensen, whose eyes flicker in the lamplight, blazing with nervous panic. "We must do it quickly, before Gustav's supporters discover what has happened and coalesce. I have not come all this way to be shot before a royalist tribunal."

Møller and Iversen exchange glances. Their comrade is right, and there is no time for dalliance. Already sympathetic officers and generals have been put in charge of as many military units as possible, but it may not be enough. The new regime must be cemented before supporters of the old have any time to rally and work out their own plan of attack.

Iversen's eyes light up, and a smile spreads across his scarred face, crinkling his bushy mustache.

"You won't trust any of Gustav's sons on the throne, and I take it you wouldn't be keen on some distant foreign cousin, either? Well…what of the thirteenth son?"

Mortensen regards the general with caution, adjusting the lapels of his uniform nervously.

"You mean Hans…the one…"

"Of course! Think! He must have as much love for his father and brothers as we do! Hell, less! You desire a puppet? The boy is thirteenth in line! How much training for the throne do you think he received? I promise I couldn't find you a more malleable fellow if I tried. So…what say you two?"

For a moment, there is only silence. In the course of the last five hours, they have crossed their own proverbial Rubicon. The three men and their fellow conspirators had plotted for years, but it had all seemed a mental exercise more than anything, until today. King Gustav had been decadent, useless, on that they all agreed. The lavish excesses of he and his sons had quick made the Southern Isles the laughingstock of Europe. That little Danish nation whose royal treasury serves only to satisfy the lust and avarice of its ruling dynasty. Iversen, Møller, and Mortensen were all seasoned, disciplined men. They had fought for the Southern Isles against Swedes, Britons, Arendellans, and too many German states to count in the course of their illustrious careers. It had pained them all to see the House of Westergaard run their once proud kingdom like a personal carnival. It was obvious-at least to them-that they could rule far better than the old man and his brats ever could. And now, with the king dead in his beds, and his heirs under lock-and-key, there is no turning back.

There is no other option.

Iversen smiles again, blue eyes shining even brighter than the oil lamps, and raises an imaginary chalice.

"To King Hans, long may he reign."

* * *

King Hans is not aware he is in fact King Hans until hours later. Dawn finds him living the same life he's lived for the past year. One that is-quite literally-shit. He had not it thought possible to hate his family more than he already did, until they had seen fit to deal him this last humiliation.

A stableboy.

He is not a goddamn stableboy. No, he is a prince. More than that. A prince who should be king. Hans deserves the throne more than any of his brothers, or sisters for that matter, he is sure. He has studied all the great conquerors and statesmen of past ages, committed maps of Europe, orders of battle, and ancient books of law to memory while his siblings whored and drank. He knows the successes of Caesar, of Alexander, of Charlemagne, of Napoleon. And their failures, too.

Another stinking heap of dung goes into the cart with a revolting plop.

This isn't fair!

With each shovelful of horse shit he curses the world. He curses his father, his brother, his mother, God, and Jesus. But most of all, he curses that bitch Elsa and her stupid whore of a sister. Hans had practically felt the weight of a crown upon his eager head, and then it had been torn away. True love, or some such nonsense. Like something out of those stupid stories read to children that they might shut up and sleep. What do those stupid girls know of love? Or suffering, for that matter.

He grips the shovel so tightly, were it not for his gloves, Hans might see his knuckles go white. Hans grits his teeth as he remembers Anna whining that her sister ignored her, that she hadn't anybody to play with growing up!

The poor dear.

She had only been shut out, and as it turned out, only because Elsa loved her too much to put her life in danger. Anna had never been kicked, spit on, mocked, called a runt or a waste. She'd never known the pain of realizing your family not only cared nothing for you, but hated you. And now she is happily reunited with the sister she'd missed so long, while Hans' brothers despise him more than ever.

And that idiot girl had the audacity to complain about her childhood. She'd been so stupid, so trusting, it was almost infuriating. Perhaps he should have been delighted to find the princess as gullible as she was, but it was so difficult not to hate someone as naive as her…

And now…what he wouldn't give to slide his hands around her pale, slender neck, and just squeeze. What he wouldn't give to relish the terror in those big blue eyes as the life slowly leaked from her body. Not that he has anything left to give.

As for Elsa…Hans has spent long hours imagining her lashed to a pyre, as witches ought to be, eyes filled with tears, screaming for mercy as the flames devoured her tender flesh.

But as days, weeks, and months crawl by he becomes painfully aware that these are nothing more than fantasies he will never fulfill.

The sun rides high in the morning sky, painting the Southern Isles in brilliant shades of red and gold. Hans is sure, that outside his stinking stable, it is quite a lovely day. He can smell the sea breeze from here. It is a sweet, inviting smell. It tastes of the wide ocean, of the freedom promised by the waves. Sometimes he liked to fantasize about escaping, stowing away on a ship. Leaving to start anew, somewhere far from here. Britain, perhaps. Or Corona, Italy, the United States. He would never be a king, nor even a prince any more, but at least he would be free. Free from this humiliation, free from the shame of having failed in Arendelle. But Hans knows it is a freedom he will never truly enjoy.

"No!" he growls, as he feels the familiar pricking of tears in his eyes. No, he will not cry again! Even if no one would see. Hans flings his shovel to the ground in exasperation, letting out an anguished cry of rage, of helplessness. He turns his eyes up towards the morning sky, prepared to unleash another string of hateful curses at the heavens, when a peculiar sound stops him short.

Men.

No, but more than that. Soldiers marching.

The stable gates burst open, and in pours a contingent of guardsmen twenty-strong at least, headed up by a man who Hans recognizes as Erik Iversen, one of his father's generals. Iversen is resplendent in his military uniform, epaulettes glimmering in the sun, freshly-polished boots contrasting sharply with the filth-coated ground, and a great tschako adding another foot to his already impressive height.

Hans wonders if this is the end. If his father and brothers have tired at last of toying with him, and have decided he is better off dead. At the same time, he is uncertain if death would be preferable to his current situation.

Iversen unsheathes his sword, and Hans' speculation appears confirmed.

Then, instead of planting the blade deep within Hans' body, he plants the sword into the fetid soup of mud and shit at his feet, and falls to one knee before it.

The Southern Isles' youngest prince takes a step back, bewildered.

"Hail, Hans, King of the Southern Isles, and Grand Duke of Skaane, by the Grace of God!"

The soldiers behind him straighten, and staring directly ahead, echo; "Hail, King Hans!"

Hans' first thought is that this is all a practical joke. Soon, Frederick or Johann will emerge, doubled over in laughter, unable to believe that their idiot little brother actually believed himself to be king.

"Wh-what do you…I am…my father…he…"

"Gustav, your majesty, is dead."

Hans refuses to believe until he sees the old man's body for himself. An ugly dagger protrudes from his neck, the former king's face and beard encrusted with dried blood. Loathing and satisfaction well up within him at the sight of his father's corpse. He has the urge to rush over, grab the heap of flesh that once was King Gustav IV of the Southern Isles by the collar, and ask him what he thought of his 'runt'? Spit in his face and demand to know who was the waste of space now? But Hans restrains himself, if only just.

"Now…good General…why did you kill my father?"

"It was…for the good of the kingdom…your majesty."

Hans cannot help but chuckle at Iversen's tone of voice. It is a frantic, nervous one, as if he is afraid the new king might be displeased with the death of his predecessor.

Far from it.

Two days later he gives a speech to the people of the Southern Isles. He condemns the "decadent, selfish reign of Gustav". He flashes a smile her and there. He spews out a few buzzwords that have become so popular of late.

Liberty.

Prosperity.

Peace.

The soldiers shout.

The ladies swoon.

The people dance to his tune.

Hans sits on the throne that he has known for so long is rightfully his, while his brothers languish in the palace dungeons. In the end, he elects to shoot the seven he hates the worst, and cage the rest for whatever remains of their miserable lives.

He is more lenient with his sisters. Stripping them of all royal titles and wealth satisfies him.

Hans is still unable to believe his father sired thirteen sons. Who would have thought the old man to have been so virile, and his two wives so fertile?

It doesn't matter, now. Hans is all too happy to play the witless fool. That is what his father's assassins clearly want. Let Iversen think he has a spoiled brat of a puppet on the throne, an easily manipulated tool. The Southern Isles are an absolute monarchy still. There is no constitution, no parliament to fetter he who wears the crown. The only limits to the king's power are God and his own weakness. Hans is certain God will do nothing to encumber him, and the only weaknesses he has are those he adopts to hide his strength. It should be all too easy to turn the tables on Iversen and his companions.

Hans will be no figurehead, he will be a king.

* * *

Hans holds a lovely little pamphlet in his hands, a grin spreading across his face. Fresh from the presses, still smelling of ink. He reads the title for the fifteenth time, enjoying it as much as he did the first.

A True and Lurid Account of the Sinful and Heathenish Debauchery Within the Arendellan Court.

True, of course.

Hans flips through its twelve pages again. Allegations that Queen Elsa had been responsible for the deaths of her parents, through her manipulation of the elements, that she had attempted to murder the honorable Duke of Weselton, that she and her younger sister loved one another in an unnatural way. That one is his personal favorite. The lurid detail these pamphleteers will delve into is just delicious, not to mention the illustrations the complementary illustrations.

And again, all true of course. This was an independent publication. Not funded, nor endorsed by the crown. The people didn't need their good and wise king to tell them what was evil and what was good. They could figure that out on their own, and any God-fearing man or woman with two eyes could see that Queen Elsa was nothing but a wicked, reprobate sorceress, servant of Hell.

Once the public has been made to hate a foe, and more importantly, to fear them, then they will clamor for their destruction. The people will not support a war with Arendelle, not yet.

But with time, just a little time, all things are possible.

* * *

"How goes it, good professor?" Hans asks, smiling.

"It…goes…" the bespectacled man responds timidly. The king reaches out, and rests a hand on his shoulder.

"No worries. I am patient. As long as…some progress is being made…"

Hans has waited for twenty-four years. A bit longer is nothing more.

"Certainly. Right now, I lean towards focusing on long range combat…it will be harder for Arendelle to counter cannon fire and ballista, even with their queen's magic. She must draw on some internal source of energy to work her sorcery, and so extensive use must tire her. Once her power is exhausted, you can make use of infantry. Or…cavalry…the faster the distance is closed, the better…you don't want to give her any time you don't have to. You must think of Arendelle as a great beast…and the queen is its head. Strike off the head, and the entire monster falls."

Anna's words echo in the back of Hans' mind.

"You're no match for Elsa."

Not yet, perhaps. But soon. This is the 19th century.

Nothing is insurmountable, with determination, and with the right weapons, not even magic.

And not "true love".

Whatever that means.


End file.
